Break Point
by PurplePosie
Summary: And if she didn't hurt so damn much, she might be inclined to laugh at the irony of it: sprawled here beaten half to death but victorious because organs, joints, skin, they can all be damaged, all be made to bleed and break and bruise...


**Break Point (G)**

_**Disclaimer: **I, um, only _wish_ I had Ron Moore's brain. I don't, and so Galactica and her crew ain't mine. I just borrow them. _

_**Author's Notes: **Set during the final scenes of "Kobol's Last Gleaming, Pt 2". Kara's scream of despair was, for me, both the most poignant, understated moment of raw grief and a fascinating insight into her character. I'm not sure if I've done either justice but hey. Please feel free to leave a comment letting me know if it worked (or didn't) for you. _

Son of a_ bitch_, she hurts.

The body beneath hers is softer in death, its limbs yield to her weight and the soft puff of air as the last breath of life escapes it is warm and human-like against her neck. And if she didn't hurt so damn much, she might be inclined to laugh at the_ irony_ of it: sprawled here beaten half to death but victorious because organs, joints, skin, they can all be damaged, all be made to bleed and break and bruise and the human weaknesses they so despise are inherent in the bodies they've so carefully created.

Of course, the flip-side of this profound piece of philosophy is the very pertinent realisation that she is also human, and her body is also badly damaged. There is the tingle of returning sensation in her right leg – not pain, not exactly, but the prickle of blood rushing to a new wound and the answering throb of damaged tissue._ Muscle, maybe_. She twitches her foot experimentally, just to see if it's as bad as she thinks it might be. She finds the energy to be surprised that it's not. Tries the other foot, the movement indiscernible to anyone who may be watching. Also good. Her right hand, then, fingers curling into her palm. Left hand, and this time it_ does_ hurt, the familiar stab of broken bones in a couple of fingers.

She sucks in a reflexive breath and_ frak me_ if that doesn't hurt more - worse than her fingers, worse than her leg, worse than the pain in her belly. Momentarily, at least, this is the worst pain she can remember being in.

Her ribs are on frakking_ fire_.

But no, she knows real pain. Smashed knees,_ that_ is pain. Cigar burns on tender flesh. _ This_, this shit,_ this_ isn't pain. She won't_ let_ it be pain.

So she catches one ragged, sobbing breath, then another, then another. There's a sudden rush of realisation - where she is, why she's here. _ The arrow, where's the frakking arrow? _ A second thought, slamming behind it. _ Gotta move, could be more of them_. So she is preparing to brace her arms and force her muscles and she_ make_ herself move when two hands come down to grip her by the shoulders, rolling her carefully, lifting her carefully. There's a disembodied voice somewhere above her: "Okay, okay, come here. Okay."

Her heart skips several beats at the sight of Helo's familiar face.

_Dead dead dead, you're dead, she left you, you're dead._ But here he is, right here in front of her, and she knows that grin, that tilt of his head, that familiar lift of his eyebrows and it_ is_ him, it_ is._

"I can't believe it." His voice cracks. "You…are like the_ last_ person I expected to see."

"I could say the same thing about you." Her ribs ache with the effort of getting the words out. She wants to reach out, to touch his face and his hair and the small tear in his uniform, just to be sure that he's real, but she's too afraid that if she reaches out and he's not there at all, if he's just some figment of her frakked up brain, it will be the end of her.

He laughs; the sound echoes in her heart. "You okay?"

She manages a small gesture that might be a smile. Grunts non-commitally; the sound easier than words. Then Helo lets out a soft noise of wry sympathy, and frak it, it's worth the pain to reach out and clutch at him, to draw him close, to feel him whole and_ alive_ against her. "Oh, I missed you."

He hugs her, a little more tightly than her battered body can stand, not tightly enough for her battered emotions and aching soul. Over his shoulder, she can see the glistening tip of the titanium rod that saved her life. The pounding in her head stops her laughter; it does not stop the small throb of triumph in her gut. _ Ha!_ She is strangely, hysterically_ thrilled_ by the sight of the iron bar sticking through its abdomen._ Killed that blonde bitch_ good.

In the back of her mind, a nagging thought. _ Could have been me. Wanted it to be me. _ The part of her that desperately longs for survival momentarily defeated by the part of her seeking the oblivion of death. Gods' truth?_ Never meant to make it this far_.

But the survival instinct kicks back in at the soft sound of approaching footsteps on the tier above them. And just because things couldn't_ possibly_ be any more frakked up than they are right now, she blinks through the blood and dust in her eyes and caked on her eyelashes to see Sharon standing above them.

She has Helo's weapon out of its holster and aimed at the cylon before conscious thought, knowing instantly and absolutely what has happened and what needs to happen now if they're to live. _Knew her, _trusted_ her, let her know me. Not supposed to be this way._

Helo lunges at her as her finger closes around the trigger. "No!"

Her hands are shaking and she has to fight to reload but the round clicks into the chamber with a satisfying_ clunk_. Tries to find the reason in her voice; tries to make him see it too. "She's a_ cylon_."

"You can't, you can't." He sounds - defeated, perhaps. Desperate. Mostly, he sounds resolute. "She's pregnant."

And this knowledge, this_ confession_, well, it's just too much.

She's standing here and Helo's hands are on her arms and she has a weapon levelled at the machine wearing Sharon's face and it's too much, there's no way to make sense of this or come back from this and it's_ just too fucking much._

Billions are dead and they are dying every day up on that ship, dying slowly and quickly from wounds and burns and disease and accidents and often from just plain grief. And down here, it's all gone, all of it,_ everything_ they knew, everything familiar and loved and once held dear. Helo is before her but not a part of her, not anymore, and the emptiness of this realisation aches because he's never been as far away from her as he is right now, standing here before her. She's betrayed a man she loves more than life and the man she wants to love her and the memory of the only man who has ever loved her. Her gods and her crew and her vows as an officer –_ herself_, the only_ good_ things she ever had inside, she's betrayed. And now she is here, in this moment, and she knows she's lost_ everything_, but it's this one thing, this small bundle of cells that he says is multiplying and dividing in the belly of the almost-machine she once called her friend, it is_ this_ that brings her undone.

Her knees buckle. She sags against the wall.

The despair pours from her mouth, because it has nowhere else to go.


End file.
